


Somethings Don't Need Fixing, Just Good Company

by c3mf



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Fluff, Gen, Hugs, so do sing-alongs, tea cures everything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-18
Updated: 2012-09-18
Packaged: 2017-11-14 13:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/515947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/c3mf/pseuds/c3mf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing a good cuppa can't help... until it can't. Then you resort to Plan B.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Somethings Don't Need Fixing, Just Good Company

Normally, Arthur loved stand-bys. They were a hundred times—no, a _thousand_ times better than take-off delays because they went on for _days_ and that sort of build-up was absolutely _brilliant._

But as much as he loved stand-bys, he also disliked them almost as much because stand-bys always meant everyone was anxious and irritable and, worst of all, _bored._ Not even charades helped and charades could last for ages if you did it right (or was that if you got it wrong? He always forgot which it was).

So to stave off the boredom, Mum had disappeared—something about invoices. (Douglas had said she was off to inflict torture by paperwork, which Arthur didn’t think was _quite_ true, but… Well, Mum could be… _persuasive_ when she wanted something, _especially_ when she wanted something…). Skip had gone out to the hangars to check on GERTI and revise the SOPs—which Arthur thought was brilliant, though he didn’t understand why lipstick was important in an evacuation. (Then again, it had been half-written in Skip’s handwriting and half in Douglas’s, like when the argued with each other on the wall chart, so maybe what Arthur had read had been a joke since Skip didn’t like scribbles all over his paperwork.)

The only one left in the portacabin was Douglas, who was lazily flipping through a magazine full of shiny, posh cars. Arthur had already made more tea and coffee than anyone had wanted and no one seemed entirely keen on the half-full package of Hobnobs he’d found in the back of the cupboard. (They were a bit stale, but chewy biscuits were every bit as good as crunchy, crumbly ones, so he didn’t see what the problem was, really.)

Since there wasn’t anything else to do, Arthur dug out his sketchpad and flopped himself down on the threadbare sofa. He propped his knees up like an easel so he could stare at the blank page and try to figure out the picture hiding in the white.

A while later, the white was still white and Arthur was still bored.

Holding his pencil in his teeth and using it as a pointer was more interesting anyway—like being a conductor for an orchestra, but with his tongue instead of his hands and a pencil for a baton.

Quietly, he hummed the theme to Super Mario Bros. to himself and tried to keep the time. He was just getting the hang of fiddly bit at the end when Dracula’s theme blared across the room and he lost his concentration. His pencil clattered to the floor at the same instant Douglas answered his mobile with a grimace and a sweet voice that really wasn’t very sweet at all.

“Hello, Laura,” Douglas drawled. “It’s been far too long without your dulcet tones screeching down the line at me, I don’t know how I’ve coped.”

Arthur carefully picked up his pencil and got himself comfortable again, preparing for the inevitable. He had heard Douglas speak to his ex-wife over the phone often enough to know none of their conversations ended terribly well. It reminded Arthur a bit of Mum and Dad, really—only worse because somehow Douglas always looked so tired afterwards. Mum never looked like that after she talked with Dad—she shouted sometimes and slammed doors, but mostly she just looked determined and really pleased with herself, like she’d won at something really important. (Though, he couldn’t really see what that something was. They were still rowing even years after the divorce, so what sort of win was that?)

Arthur wondered if maybe Douglas looked so tired because he lost. (No, that was silly. Douglas didn’t lose at anything. He was too clever for that.)

“Sorry?” Douglas said, not in a way that meant he didn’t understand, but in a way that said he very much did and he didn’t like what he’d heard one bit.

Arthur set his knees higher and hid himself behind his sketchpad. He wasn’t entirely certain he was supposed to hear any of this, but leaving now would involve a lot of fuss and noise and Arthur didn’t really want Douglas’s attention pinned on him, especially not when he was scowling like that. It would just be safer if Arthur just stayed put and didn’t pay Douglas any mind.

“Absolutely not!” Douglas snapped and slammed his palm on the desk.

Arthur flinched. Right, not any mind at all. That would be a lot easier if the portacabin wasn’t so small and Douglas wasn’t quite so loud…

Arthur stared intently at the whiteness of the blank page spread across his knees, determined to discover the hidden picture (or at least determined not to catch Douglas’s eye).

“No, I don’t understand, nor do I care to.”

Without even looking, Arthur knew Douglas was upset. The shouting wasn’t the clue, though. It was the tightness in Douglas’s voice. The way he kept it level and a tad soft gave it all away, because that meant Douglas was doing all he could to keep a rein on his temper.

Arthur always thought that was a bit scary to be honest. (Well, not Douglas—though Douglas could be plenty scary if he really wanted to be—but it was scary in general). If you went all shouty when you were angry, people knew you were upset and usually they knew why. But if you went all quiet instead, you just bottled it all up and no one knew, and if no one knew how could anyone figure out whether or not they could help you? It was one of those things that didn’t make the least bit of sense, but you had to teach yourself to recognize it anyways, because the people who went quiet would never tell you and that was just awful.

“This is _my_ time, and you can’t bloody well change it simply because you fancy a jolly to Thessaloniki!”

Douglas’s chair creaked. Arthur risked a glance over to find Douglas bracing himself over the desk, his free hand curled so tight his knuckles stood out, sharp and white.

“And you didn’t think it might be prudent to inform me _before_ you booked the sodding plane tickets? …Because it’s a simple courtesy, Laura, and I would have thought you capable of picking up the phone and bloody _telling_ me— Well, you certainly have no reservations whenever you feel inclined to run me down for money. Oh, come off it! Miranda is one thing, but I don’t owe _you_ anything and— If you hang up on me, I swear by all that’s holy—”

All at once, Douglas cut off and stared at his mobile as though he couldn’t decide between being stunned or hurling it across the room. Finally, he settled for tossing it on the desk and collapsing back into his seat. He ran a hand over his face and for the longest time just slouched dejectedly in his chair.

Arthur stayed folded on the sofa wishing it wasn’t so terribly quiet. It wasn’t the comfortable silence from before the phone call, the sort where you didn’t speak because you didn’t have to and everyone was content not to say a word. Instead, it had turned heavy and thick, where everything felt as though it weighed a ton and you didn’t speak because you had no idea what to say. Those were the worst sorts of silences and Arthur didn’t like them one bit.

Douglas might have gone quiet, but no amount of awfulness was going to stop Arthur trying, because he might not know the right thing to say, but he knew hurt when he saw it, and you didn’t let the people you cared about suffer.

So, Arthur took a deep, steadying breath, pulled the pencil from between his teeth, and unfolded himself from the sofa. He wasn’t particularly loud, but he certainly didn’t try to hide the fact that he was still there either. Douglas didn’t move an inch, didn’t give any indication he had heard Arthur at all—or if he had, he didn’t care in the least.

He didn’t ask Douglas if everything was okay. He could see that it wasn’t and asking would only make Douglas feel like he ought to lie and keep a stiff upper lip so he didn’t have to explain why he very much wasn’t all right. Arthur wasn’t stupid enough to think he could fix things, but sometimes things didn’t _need_ to be fixed, but that didn’t mean you had to be alone and miserable.

Besides, there wasn’t anything a nice, hot cup of tea couldn’t help.

Arthur popped the kettle on and set about making the most fantastic cuppa he could manage (which wasn’t as fantastic as it could have been if he’d had a proper kitchen to work in, but working in the galley on GERTI had taught him how creative and resourceful he could really be.) Throughout it all, Douglas stayed slumped in his seat, looking for all the world as though he wished the floor would open up and swallow him whole.

Arthur didn’t let it bother him that Douglas continued to ignore him, even when Arthur set down the tea on the corner of the desk and carefully placed Douglas’s magazine out of the way so it wouldn’t get ruined.

“Tea, Douglas,” Arthur told him. “My special brew.”

Arthur knew he wasn’t supposed to take notice of Douglas’s delayed reaction, so he didn’t say another word, just smiled as usual when Douglas at last mumbled a distracted, “Thank you.” He didn’t make a move to reach for it, though.

“It wasn’t all that bad,” Arthur said, feeling the need to point that bit out, because it was true.

“What wasn’t?” Douglas grumbled.

“The row with your ex-wife. There might have been some shouty bits, but nothing terrible happened.”

“Oh? And how do you figure that, Arthur?”

“Because if Miranda were hurt or worse, you wouldn’t be all scowly like you are now. So everything must be all right—well, mostly all right, at least. And _that’s_ what matters, isn't it? That everything’s okay and she’s safe?”

Douglas blinked. “Yes,” he said at length. “Yes, it is.”

“But…?”

Sighing, Douglas smoothed a hand over his face and straightened. “This was my week with Miranda, but my ex-wife thought it would be a better idea to visit her brother in Greece instead. I don’t see Miranda enough as it is, and then Laura does _this_ when she _knew_ , and…” He sighed again, ran a hand through his hair and snorted out a laugh. “Now I have a weeklong holiday, two tickets to the London Zoo, and absolutely no reason for either.”

There was a weary edge to Douglas’s voice, but even as he spoke, he deflated, and by the end he was staring morosely into his tea.

Oh. Right then. If tea didn’t help—and it didn’t look like it was—then there was one surefire thing Arthur knew that could help just about anything, and it was far more brilliant than any tea he could ever manage.

Careful not to jostle Douglas and upend his cup, Arthur threw his arms around Douglas, tucked his chin against Douglas’s shoulder, and hugged Douglas as tightly as he could. There was an awkward moment where Douglas stiffened at the contact, but after a bit, he settled into Arthur’s embrace with a choked laugh.

“Thank you, Arthur,” he said, and patted one of Arthur’s arms with a hand.

Even still, Arthur didn’t let go.

“Touching though this is,” Douglas said finally, “I’d appreciate it more if I could actually breathe.”

Sheepishly, Arthur let go, straightened and gave Douglas a toothy smile—which widened enough to practically split his face in two when Douglas flashed Arthur a smile of his own.

“You know,” Arthur said, “ _I_ quite like the zoo. Especially, meerkats. They’re—”

“Brilliant? Yes, I thought so.”

Arthur kept smiling, feeling the muscles in his cheeks being to hurt.

At last, Douglas broke eye contact and snorted, “All right, Mogli. Put the kettle on, would you?”

Arthur knew it was only an excuse to send him away, but he readily obliged and set things up to make a fresh pot.

“I have to say, though,” Douglas said. “I’m much more partial to lions. Kings of the jungle and all that.”

Arthur grinned. When he started singing “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King” and Douglas joined in, Arthur knew things might not be fixed, but there was no lonely, quiet misery left, and that was what mattered.


End file.
